The Stars Align
by tierney
Summary: Allison Cameron is no bleeding heart. She knows that House can never love her, not in the way that she wants. But this doesn't stop her from dreaming... Follows "Second Chances" R&R please:)


She had this fantasy, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Rather, it persisted, to the point that she was preoccupied by it, both in waking hours, and when asleep. She imagined about that night, the night where she had come to his apartment, and told him that she was leaving. She imagined that it had gone differently, of course, that instead of ignoring her outstretched hand, he had swept her into his arms, and kissed her, and told her not to go, that the hospital needed her, that he needed her. She imagined how the curves of his features would feel under her fingertips, if he would tremble at her touch the way she seemed too at his.

Of course, she knew better than to entertain this fantasy for very long. Contrary to what Foreman, Chase, and House seemed to think, she was not a hopeless romantic. Just because she wasn't hardened and bitter as House was, didn't make her a bleeding heart. No, her life, and the circumstances that befell her, taught her better than to believe that something -or someone- could make her perfectly, rapturously happy. And so her schoolgirl fantasy shifted, and changed, and became something different entirely. She no longer wanted to be swept into House's arms -this, she knew, was completely against his character, and would never happen even if she were the only woman in the world for him- but it still revolved around that night, in his apartment.

She supposed it was because she wanted, needed, craved closure of some sort, closure that, in reality, she was never going to get. She imagined that, when she had come to his apartment, she could hear the strains of House playing his piano. He was playing something wistful, sweet, almost mournful- most often Allison chose Beethoven's "Fur Elise" or Bach's "Minuet in G"- and that, when she had tried the door, it was unlocked. In her fantasy, she would step into the room, quietly, undetected, and see him, bent in concentration, the profile of his face turned away from her. She would study him, for a moment, and then walk, still undetected, until she was directly behind him. From her vantage point, she would watch his fingers, as they, by turns, gently caressed and angrily pounded the keys. She could sense that his inner turmoil was reflected upon those keys, and for that reason, the idea of his playing the piano fascinated her.

The idea of watching him play the piano undetected fascinated her.

Of course, she wouldn't remain undetected for long. She didn't want to be just a voyeur, watching him from the outside. She wanted to be a part of him, whether that meant shouldering part of his torment, or spooning sugar into his coffee in the mornings. Of course, she was no martyr, but she knew which one she wanted. And, with even more clarity, exactly which one she was going to get, had she stayed. And so, in her fantasy, she was in control. When House's ministrations on the piano became particularly explosive- and after a short period that had her mind wandering onto how his fingers would feel on her body instead of the piano- she would make her presence known by silently, carefully, softly, placing her hands over his on the keys.

His fingers would still underneath hers, and the room would be filled with silence. Sometimes Allison imagined that the silence was charged, fraught with tension, and sometimes the silence was stifling, more than she could bear. But most often, Allison felt that the silence was comfortable, and that, in the silence, House would turn to her, his fingers still on the keys, still under her own, and would look at her. And in that look, she would know. She would have confirmed what he would never say aloud, what he himself denied, even in his thoughts. In his intense, cerulean gaze, she would know that he felt something for her. What he felt was never love. She was no fool, even her fantasies wouldn't allow for such deceit. He would never love her, not completely, not fully. Call her damaged, call her weak, but she was fine with that. She could go on with her life without his love, if only he would show her, in reality, what she saw in her fantasies, what she hoped to be true. He liked her, he respected her. And so, this confirmed, she would lean forward, and brush her lips across his forehead, softly, languorously. In doing so, his eyes would close, the lines on his forehead would ease, and he would look peaceful, like a young child on the edge of dreamland. And she would leave him, as silently as she had come, and stand outside his door a moment, listening to the silence within. After a moment, the piano would resume, and Allison Cameron would smile. Most times, he would be playing Mozart. Her favorite. And in her fantasy, that meant something.

Of course, the fact that these scenarios where hers and hers alone, and could never be real, had begun to be disheartening. She wished that there was some way she could come to terms with what she was feeling, whether it meant to absolve herself of House entirely, forget about his blue eyes, that undefinable essence of his that made her long for his touch just thinking about him. He made her weak. Just this fact made her wish that she could run away, far away, from Gregory House. In a sense, she supposed, she had. But things with him would never be that easy. What they had -and Cameron knew they had something, however undefinable it currently was- couldn't be run away from forever, no matter how hard they both were trying. There were obstacles, hardships that they both had to overcome, to even consider acting upon what Cameron hoped was there. Perhaps she was as they all said. The Pollyanna, the eternal optomist. The naive little girl. But she was going to fight. She had too. She wasn't going to allow herself to be a lap dog, someone who came when called, but knew her place and would follow orders. She was a woman.

And damn him, if he couldn't see that. Well, he could see that. But, so far, it was only in her fantasies.


End file.
